28 February 2015

The dusk is wallowing in Buckley Park; the gentle glow of lamps in bungalows spills briefly out into the setting dark and then disperses as the curtains close. You trudge back past the pubs, the chippy by the bridge, young Billy fiercely fluffing rhymes. It's time, the boatman yells good-fucking-bye, to leave the town and all its hopes and crimes. It's far from perfect, but the best a town can do is grow a little every day, ignore the impish folk of Grimly Down, and hope that good intentions wash away the slime and sludge of any plans gone bad and leave the loving heart that's good and glad.

A grisly tale is best for boosting sales. Reporters and their readers are both fond of news of gory deeds and grim details: His jawless head was floating in the pond! The Herald's Jo knows just the way to write about a body found in wheelie bins, the putrid stink of severed limbs, the sight of jutting bone, the sudden grasp of sins. We will not print this bunk! her boss insists and asks for stories from the Knit-a-thon. So off Jo slogs with notebook and clenched fist. The unrelenting stitching . . . and so on. The publicists know at May's Knitting Needles the Herald's never been too hard to wheedle.

20 February 2015

On Monday morn, a jogger saw a leg half covered by a heap of leaves and sticks. Poor Daniel's brains were spilt like scrambled egg and by him lay a box of Weetabix. And next day at the butcher's, lardy Keith was found slumped on a stack of minty chops. His slopping guts were mingled with his beef and by him lay a box of Coco Pops. No clues to find. The killer isn't sloppy.Police are baffled. Neighbours tremble. But down at the Herald, Jo submits her copy and tucks into a bowl of Crunchy Nut. With just a cleaver and a dreadful joke at last she's got her scoop in Buckley Oak.

16 February 2015

From dawn till tea there's Grandpa Joe in garden with mug of Yorkshire tea and baccy wad. The seeds are softly sown by hands long hardened with tearing grass and thistles from the sod. Each day the turnips thicken, pumpkins plump, cabbages flourish, cauliflowers grow, and green tomatoes gain their crimson rumps: he takes all prizes at the county show. To win the day our hero's up each night working where shadows rear and black rats scurry: in sewers with a shovel Joe, despite the stench, gets compost from the human slurry. A metaphor? Whate'er you make of it remember that the best will grow from shit.

14 February 2015

For half the month, old Johnny Eglantine will swap his poppy for a sweetbriar rose, and sit in Buckley Park in Sunday clothes – same bench each day – until it’s time to dine. At home, he lights a candle, pours some wine – two glasses always – though he sadly knows he’ll only drink the one, but so it goes: he sits in silence for his Valentine. Then on the fifteenth, when the candle’s died, he’ll slide the poppy through his buttonhole – he knows she sees him soldier on with pride. He petal-wraps in pink the heart she stole, and seals his annual promise with a tear: he’ll wear a smile until this time next year.

12 February 2015

In Buckley Oak we're for the status quo
so if new homes are built in our back yard,
like fresh verrucas sprouting on a toe,
don't be surprised to find them burned and charred.
A hospital would bring a roar of sneezes,
a tidal wave of bowels and gristly goo;
a field of turbines spinning in the breeze
would slice our blithe and chirping birds in two.
Nor do we want the muddled sludge and dung,
the pinching bugs and thickets thick with spikes,
that birdbrains call the countryside, where young
lovers rampage around on aging bikes.
We don't want much, we have a simple dream:
a perfect void that's timeless and pristine.

09 February 2015

Two boozers, both alike in dignity: The Dog & Duck of course, and then The Crown – the source of Buckley’s sporting rivalries, as drinking men compete across the town. ‘The Dogging Duckers’ always reign supreme at snooker, darts, bar billiards, whist and rugger; they’ve broken records with their football team – that Boycey is a nippy little bugger! While ’Bella’s bar resounds with pops and fizzes, the drinkers at The Crown just scoff and snort that they, at least, win all the bloody quizzes, and cricket is a far superior sport. And always at the bar is Jones, the Parson, who hates all sport, and often thinks of arson.

08 February 2015

On Tuesday nights in Molly's living room (the hall is much too cold in winter) gather the women of the neighbourhood, for whom there's nothing better than the chance to blather. They sip their tea and butter scones and talk of how to kill all men. A wife must know just how to make her husband scream and squawk and spread his guts like jam upon the snow. And when they're done and pottered home again to cook another meal and dust upstairs they know a mace is made from ball and chain, an apron's something which a butcher wears. Bring me my Bow of burning gold. Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!

04 February 2015

Retired from teaching, now he dallies in
the smoker's shelter of the Dog and Duck.
He's always ready with a grubby grin
and tender growl to grab your arm and tuck
into his tales of muddy fields in sleet:
rounders and fraying bibs; laps and gritty
scabs; whistles and the rap of rushing feet;that lanky Boyce had had a trial with City!
He stops to wipe his chin and gulp his drink,
relights a narrow rollie. On his nose
capillaries unfold their florid ink.
The flitting of his little eyes has slowed.
As you start to move on, he burps. Well, son, that's over now, but were my lessons fun?